Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘If I don’t win, Grace,’ he said firmly, ‘then I’m going to try again. The next elections are only in four years’ time. And there’ll be risks again. You know that.’

  ‘But look how big the risk is, Gabe! Caro is dead! What good will it do if you die too? Or me? Or the twins? You can’t help people if you’re dead.’

  She felt a deep, unsettling selfishness saying it, but it was the truth, and it was also a relief to say out loud what she had been feeling for months, perhaps years.

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want? Do you want to live like this, always looking over your shoulder?’

  ‘I want to be president, Grace,’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘It’s my destiny.’

  She took a long, hard look at Gabriel’s face. She didn’t see sadness, guilt or anger at what had just happened. All she saw was desire. Somewhere along the line, the quest for change had become the need for power. And power, she knew, was a drug too hard to kick. Deep down, she knew her marriage was over.

  ‘Grace!’ cried Gabriel as he watched her walk away. ‘Come back, goddamn it!’

  But she kept walking. She closed her eyes and let the summer breeze wash over her, knowing exactly what she needed to do.

  Gabriel ran up and caught her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he said irritably.

  ‘I’m leaving Parador.’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s insane!’ stuttered Gabriel. ‘How is that going to look to the electorate, my wife abandoning me?’

  ‘I don’t care how it looks, Gabe,’ she cried. ‘I want our kids to be safe.’

  ‘They are safe!’

  ‘Clearly not.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to make a difference, Grace,’ he mocked.

  She shrugged.‘What is more important to you, Gabe? Your family or your ambitions?’

  ‘I want to save my country,’ he said, puffing his chest out.

  ‘No, Gabriel, you want to be president. There is a huge difference. ’

  She stormed up the path back to the lodge. Still shaking with anger, she dried her face and took a few moments to compose herself before she went back into the suite. Isabella was in a chair by the open window reading a book, the twins still asleep. Grace wondered how much her mother-in-law had seen or heard.

  ‘So, my dear,’ said Isabella, putting a bookmark between the pages. ‘I suppose you’ll be leaving us.’

  Grace looked across at her sharply. ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘But I know what I’d be thinking, as a wife and a mother. If I were you, Grace, I would leave Parador.’

  Grace gaped at her and Isabella chuckled softly. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I’ve made many sacrifices for my country. I’ve lost a husband and a son. You think you can fix things with good ideas and principles and passion, but sadly, I’ve come to realise that that just isn’t the case.’

  ‘I do want him to win, Isabella, I do, but I can’t live like this.’ The older woman nodded. ‘Go,’ she said simply. ‘I don’t want to lose anyone else. Nothing is worth that, believe me.’

  Grace felt the tears come again. This was the last person she had expected kindness from.

  Isabella walked over and gently lifted her chin. ‘Look after my grandchildren for me.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought I would hate you? No, Grace, I am proud of you. Proud of what you have achieved in Parador, proud of the woman you have grown into. And now I am proud that you are doing the right thing. I only wish that I had had your strength when I was your age.’

  Grace could barely move her mouth to speak. Isabella nodded towards the door, where Grace could see her suitcase standing.

  ‘I’ve packed all your things,’ she said. ‘Now gather your children; your car is waiting downstairs. There’s a jet at Christchurch airport which will take you wherever you want to go.’

  Grace pulled Isabella into a smothering hug. It was only then that she realised this was the first time she had ever embraced her mother-in-law. ‘Thank you, Isabella,’ she said simply.

  ‘You’re very welcome, my dear,’ said Isabella, straightening herself back up to her usual elegant posture.

  Quickly Grace scooped the unstirring twins up and walked to the door as Isabella gave them a final goodbye kiss.

  ‘You will look after Gabe, won’t you?’ she asked, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Of course, he will be fine.’ Isabella opened the door and Grace stepped through. ‘And Grace?’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine too.’

  I only hope you’re right, thought Grace, biting on her lip to stop herself from sobbing. I only hope you’re right.

  34

  March 1994

  Sasha had never spent more time preparing for a meeting; she would hardly have taken more care over her appearance if it had been Oscar night. She had tried on everything in her wardrobe, rejected the lot, then trawled Bond Street before deciding that her favourite Ben Rivera day dress was by far the most flattering and, of course, appropriate. As she was shown up to the office, she felt pretty good. She was tall and slender thanks to four-inch heels and a week on a drastic Ryvita diet and her blond hair was long and glossy thanks to a three-hundred-pound cut and colour at Neville. Of course, she would have perferred to be coming here with a successful career to boast about – at the very least, an eight-carat engagement ring. But then this wasn’t a social call. She had only come because she had to.

  ‘Hello, Miles,’ she said, walking into the Globe Club office, swaying her hips. The years had been kind to Miles Ashford, she thought, taking a seat opposite him. In a sharply tailored navy suit, accessorised by just a tan, her ex-boyfriend had transformed from an attractive yet gangly youth into a handsome twenty-three-year-old man oozing confidence and polish.

  I’d be oozing confidence if I owned the Globe, thought Sasha begrudgingly. The Covent Garden club was unquestionably the hippest, most elite place in town. On the way up to Miles’ top-floor office, she’d seen two actors, a rock band and a group of writers in intense discussion over cappuccinos. London was gathering a buzz as the place to be – not since the sixties, when Mary Quant, Shrimpton, Bailey and the Stones had helped make it a global mecca for all things cool had the capital had such a feeling of possibility and excitement. And right now, the Globe Club was at the epicentre of it all; the place to be seen.

  ‘Tea?’ asked Miles, reclining in his Eames chair and buzzing his secretary. Sasha bristled at being treated like any other corporate guest, but then again, any hopes of a private, intimate tête-à-tête had been dashed when he had suggested meeting at his office.

  ‘Only tea?’ She smiled. ‘In the old days it would have been a cheeky lunchtime martini.’

  ‘I don’t drink on duty, Sasha. In fact, I rarely drink at all these days.’

  ‘Things have changed,’ she said, genuinely surprised.

  A beautiful girl dressed in tight black cigarette pants came in and placed a tray of tea on the leather-topped table. Miles barely took his eyes off the girl while she was in the room, a gesture Sasha felt sure was for her benefit.

  ‘So how are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled. ‘Congratulations on your wedding, by the way. What does your wife do again?’

  Miles’ mouth tightened into a line. ‘Chrissy is a partner in the business with me.’

  ‘Yes, I heard she was a hostess. That must be useful with a place like the Globe Club.’

  They looked at each other, two fighting dogs circling, neither willing to back down.

  Miles put a dainty cup in front of Sasha, rattling it in the saucer. ‘What do you want, Sash?’

  ‘I have a very exciting business opportunity for you.’

  Miles gave a small laugh. ‘You mean you want to borrow some money.’

  Sasha had always known this wasn’t going to be easy, but she was determined not to wither under his mocking gaze.

  ‘You’re twenty-three years old, Sasha. What do you know about business?’

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sp; ‘I could say the same about you.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But here you are, on top of the world.’

  ‘I found my calling,’ said Miles grandly.

  ‘Well it’s the same with me,’ she replied. ‘The aim of my business is to help make women look fabulous. And I was always top-notch at looking good, wasn’t I?’

  Miles just shrugged non-committally and suddenly Sasha hated him. Miles Ashford with his family money and Oxbridge attitude. Without his trust funds he’d be nothing, and yet here he was, lording it over her like some ancient king. If she and his other friends hadn’t kept quiet . . . She took a breath. She was here for a reason, not to dredge up the past.

  ‘I am working with a couturier called Ben Rivera,’ she said, trying to maintain a businesslike tone. ‘It’s a small operation making red-carpet gowns; he’s as good as Lagerfeld or Lacroix, better even. The trouble is his outfit has little commercial backing, and as yet, it’s not geared up for any mainstream production or distribution.’

  Miles curled a lip. ‘And I am interested in Ben Rivera because . . . ?’

  She had to be honest with him. This office was the Last Chance Saloon. She had spent the last eighteen months walking a commercial tightrope; she needed wealthy investors, but she knew that looking for money on her rich social circuit might alert people to Ben’s potential. Already word was getting round the industry that he was a name to watch out for, especially since he had made a gown for Princess Diana. So Sasha had encouraged him to stay small, working on spectacular bespoke pieces while she tried to find someone to give her the money to steal the business out from under him.

  ‘You should be interested because everyone is interested in fashion now; everyone wants to buy into a slice of designer living. Image is everything, Miles. You’ve bought into that yourself with the Globe. But in the next ten years the top fashion houses will become billion-dollar brands with infinite brand extension opportunities. Here’s the business plan,’ she said, putting a slim folder in front of him. ‘That will show you how I’m going to do it.’

  Miles sighed, flipping through the folder without interest. ‘And how much are you looking for?’

  ‘A million pounds,’ said Sasha calmly. ‘Three hundred thousand to buy Ben out, the rest for capital investment: a store in a chic street in London and the nuts and bolts of creating a ready-to-wear operation. Fabric, a manufacturer in Italy, distribution and so on.’

  Miles folded his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘So let me get this right,’ he said with a superior smile. ‘Three hundred thousand buys you a controlling interest in Ben Rivera. Let’s say a sixty per cent stake. But you want to keep hold of a majority shareholding, which is fifty-one per cent. The designer also retains a share. So where does that leave the investor? You can’t honestly expect anyone to invest a million pounds for a ten per cent stake in a back-street fashion designer, can you?’ He gave a little laugh she recognised well, the laugh he reserved for people he pitied or felt were beneath him.

  ‘Ben Rivera is not a back-street designer,’ she said firmly. ‘His will be the next big name in fashion.’

  Miles looked bored. ‘And who’s the management team?’

  ‘There’s me, of course.’

  Miles laughed. ‘Spending money was always your strong point, Sasha, not making it.’

  Sasha tried not to flinch. The management team was the weak part of her plan. She was completely convinced of her own abilities and the potential of the Rivera brand, but she was well aware that investors saw ‘creative’ types as a liability. They wanted to see that other people like them – steady, analytical people with a track record in business – were prepared to get involved in the project.

  ‘I have Philip Bettany, an analyst at Schroder’s, as my financial director.’

  She hadn’t officially asked Phil if she could use his name, of course, and she had zero expectation that he would give up a glittering career in the financial sector to help his sort-of-girlfriend out with her silly dresses, but she wasn’t going to let Miles know that.

  Miles nodded, looking much more impressed. ‘Well, he should know what he’s talking about at least,’ he said, tossing the business plan on his desk. ‘Trouble is, I haven’t got a million quid to give you.’

  Sasha swallowed. She had expected resistance, even out-and-out refusal, but not this.

  ‘Bullshit, Miles,’ she said. ‘What about your trust funds?’

  He held his hands open. ‘They’re bankrolling this place.’

  ‘I thought that was your father’s job?’

  Miles shook his head. ‘You have the wrong information.’

  She felt panic rising. She couldn’t leave this room without the money; what would she do? She’d tried every other avenue and it was only a matter of time before someone else spotted Ben’s potential.

  ‘You owe me, Miles,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And how exactly do I owe you?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. That night on Angel Cay, the body of the boat boy.’

  ‘What body?’ he said. ‘There was no body.’

  ‘Really? Well perhaps we should get the Bahamas police to interview Grace and Alex. That should jog everyone’s memory.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Look, OK, so we all saw this guy on the beach. We all agreed to ignore it. All of us. But then it turns out the fucker wasn’t so dead after all. He nicked a boat and buggered off. So don’t pretend you have something over me. All we had was a thief, not a body.’

  Sasha shook her head slowly. ‘You almost battered someone to death, Miles. How’s that going to go down with your little showbiz chums? I can’t see them flocking around when the story gets out.’

  ‘I did not batter anyone,’ he growled, gripping the front of his desk.

  ‘You know it, I know it, Grace and Alex know it. Why else do we all avoid each other like the plague?’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ he spat. ‘Why the hell would I even care about that stupid deckhand?’

  She paused, picking at an imaginary thread on her skirt.

  ‘I fucked the boat boy, Miles,’ she said casually. ‘On the last night, in his cabin. I think he came to find you and I think you attacked him. And I know you were coming from West Point Cove just before we found him.’

  His face was like stone. ‘I did not do it,’ he said quietly, his voice betraying just the slightest crack.

  ‘But you had motive, didn’t you? And opportunity. And it would be just like you to attack someone from behind.’

  Their eyes locked.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he hissed.

  ‘Whatever you want it to mean, Miles.’

  Suddenly he jumped up, leaning on the desk. ‘This hangs over you too, Sasha,’ he said.‘You’re planning this hotshot fashion career. You have just as much to lose.’

  Sasha laughed. ‘Miles, right now, I have nothing to lose.’

  Cursing, he turned away and walked to the window.

  ‘We all agreed to keep quiet,’ he said, looking down at the street. ‘And now you come here threatening me.’

  ‘This isn’t a threat, it’s a business opportunity. I’m not asking for cash to keep quiet, I’m offering you a slice of a global fashion brand with the potential to make us all rich. I just needed to get your attention.’

  ‘Well you’ve certainly done that, Sasha,’ he said, not turning to look at her.

  Sasha wondered if she’d pushed him too far. She knew what he was capable of and she certainly didn’t want Miles Ashford as an enemy, but what she had said was true: she really didn’t have anything to lose.

  ‘For old times’ sake,’ he sighed, ‘and because I actually agree with you about the potential of the fashion sector, I could offer five hundred thousand for a fifty per cent stake.’

  Sasha’s heart gave a lurch. She had him, but she couldn’t let go yet.

  ‘You don’t appear to be listening to me, Miles,’ she said coolly. ‘Half a million isn’t enough.’
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  ‘It’s all I can afford.’

  He had to be bluffing: half a million was pocket change to someone like Miles Ashford. Besides, it was academic: she needed more.

  ‘Twenty-five per cent of the company for seven hundred and fifty thousand, and that money is in the form of a loan. After four years, if I can pay you back, then your shareholding reverts to me.’

  ‘I want interest at ten per cent.’

  She snorted. ‘You get interest at five per cent and think yourself lucky,’ she said.